Chapter 33
Clara
I don’t know if I’m crazy.
That’s the honest truth.
I mean, I’ve been accused of that before.
Of being rash. Indecisive. Too much.
Maybe this is impulsive.
Maybe it’s reckless.
Maybe it’s the kind of grand romantic gesture women swear they’ll never make and then make anyway.
But I know one thing with absolute clarity—I’m in love.
And I don’t want to bulldoze it.
I don’t want to suffocate it with five-year plans and contingency clauses and panic.
I just want to give it a real chance.
So I sit at Kelly’s kitchen table with my laptop open, sunlight pouring across the wood, and I take my meeting like the adult woman I am.
My investment broker’s face fills the screen.
We talk portfolios.
Liquidity.
Tax implications.
And my Manhattan apartment.
The place that used to feel like proof I’d made it.
Now it feels like a storage unit for a version of myself that doesn’t quite fit anymore.
“I’m considering selling,” I say calmly.
There’s a pause.
“That’s a big move, Clara.”
“I know.”
“Did you tell your parents?”
“No. But I will when it’s done.”
“If you’re sure,” he says.
I snort.
I’ve known Mr. Felding since forever.
He’s a friend of my parents.
“Well, I think we are done here. Until next time,” he says.
After the call ends, I stare at my reflection in the black screen for a long minute.
I think about it—about selling—and I realize it doesn’t feel impulsive.
It feels clean.
Then I pick up my phone and call the family lawyer.
If I’m cutting ties, I’m cutting them clean.
Geoffrey gets nothing more from me.
No dangling strings.
No more barging in on my life.
That is finished and over with.
“Miss Belle, how can I help you?”
Elizabeth Bradley is my family attorney. She is efficient and brilliant, and doesn’t ask too many questions when I tell her what I want.
So, I do. I get the ball rolling. And the conversation is efficient.
Clinical.
Fast.
Perfect.
When I hang up, my hands are shaking.
Not from doubt.
From finality.
Kelly finds me like that—still at the table, staring into space.
“You okay?” she asks gently.
I look up at her. Just the woman I want to see.
“Yeah, um, sit down a sec. I think I’m about to do something insane.”
She laughs softly. “Okay, well, is it good insane or bad insane?”
“I think good—for the both of us.”
I tell her about the apartment.
About the calls.
About how Manhattan suddenly feels like a life I survived instead of a life I want.
Her eyes soften.
“You’re not doing this just for Greyson, right?”
The question is careful. Protective.
“No,” I answer immediately. And I mean it. “I’m doing it because I feel different here. Lighter. Like I’m not performing all the time.”
I glance out the window at the mountain line in the distance.
“I write better here,” I admit. “I breathe better here.”
Kelly studies me.
“You belong wherever you feel steady,” Kelly says finally. “Not where you feel obligated.”
That lands somewhere deep.
Because Manhattan didn’t make me steady.
It made me polished.
It made me impressive.
It made me good at smiling through discomfort and swallowing disappointment and telling myself that compromise was maturity.
It made me feel obligated—to be the good daughter, the strategic fiancée, the socially acceptable woman who doesn’t rock boats or demand more.
Woodhaven doesn’t make me impressive.
It makes me honest.
It makes me grounded.
It makes me feel like I can exhale.
“I don’t want to rush him,” I say quietly. “Or us. I’m not moving into his cabin tomorrow. I’m not picking out curtains.”
Kelly snorts. “Good. Because that place needs more than curtains.”
I laugh, but my heart is pounding.
“But I do want the option to stay,” I continue. “I don’t want to exist in limbo anymore. If this works, I want it to be because I chose it. Not because I ran away from something. Not because I needed saving.”
That’s the difference.
I’m not running.
I’m driving.
Kelly folds another stack of laundry, watching me carefully. “There aren’t many rentals around here. Just the seasonal cabins, mostly. Rustic. No fancy condos, I’m afraid.”
I nod slowly.
“I know,” I say. Then I swallow. “Actually, I was wondering something else.”
She pauses. “Okay. What?”
“How would you feel about selling me your house?”
The silence is immediate and thick.
“Clara,” she says carefully, “I don’t want you to feel bad for me and my situation—”
“I don’t,” I cut in quickly. “I mean, I do feel bad. Of course I do. But that’s not why I want this place.”
I stand up now, because sitting feels too small for what I’m about to say.
“You have years and years of history in these walls with Mike. Every room probably echoes with it. You deserve a fresh start that doesn’t smell like betrayal.”
She blinks.
“And I,” I continue, my voice steadying as I speak the truth out loud, “need something that’s mine. Not my parents’. Not tainted with Geoffrey’s memory—or his secretary’s bare ass—” we both snort.
“I understand that,” Kelly murmurs.
“And I don’t want a luxury high-rise someone else helped me choose. I want something that feels like me. Like mine.”
My pulse thunders.
“I want to explore whatever this is with Greyson without feeling like I’m one suitcase away from leaving. I don’t want him to feel pressured to take me in. And I don’t want to waste time pretending I don’t know what I want.”
Her eyes widen slightly.
“But it’s a whole house,” she says faintly.
“I’m rich,” I blurt.
She bursts out laughing. “What?”
“Obscenely,” I clarify. “Like, embarrassingly so. I can afford it. And I’m willing to offer you twenty percent above market value. Clean deal. No drama. You get a fresh start. I get roots.”
She stares at me for a long moment.
“You’re serious.”
“I’ve never been more serious about anything.”
Not even Geoffrey.
Not even Manhattan.
Not even the blog.
Because this isn’t about a man.
It’s about me.
It’s about finally choosing the life that feels aligned instead of scripted.
Kelly exhales slowly.
“Sold,” she says, half laughing, half stunned.
And just like that—this house is mine.
Mine.
The word expands in my chest like sunlight.
For the first time in my life, I’m not negotiating my happiness around someone else’s comfort.
I’m not shrinking.
I’m not waiting for permission.
Maybe Greyson and I work.
Maybe we don’t.
But I am done building my life around fear of being alone.
I close my laptop and look around the living room.
The scuffed floors. The worn couch. The window that looks out at the mountain line.
This isn’t Manhattan glamour.
It’s possibility.
And for the first time ever—I’m taking the reins.
Not just because a man asked me to stay.
But because I deserve to choose where I build my future.